◎ Do You Know Luo Peiyin? ◎

Lin Haichuan called Gu Qiao to push back their meeting time by half an hour.

“I’m still at the television station — I can’t leave yet. One thing leads to another, and we’re already at four hours. We’d just finished recording when they said there was a problem with what we recorded earlier and now they need to do supplemental filming.”

Lin Haichuan finished his quiet complaint, hung up the call, turned around, and smiled at the director: “No need to apologize — it’s fine. This has been the most engaging interview I’ve ever given. In fact, I’m happy to talk more.”

He’d been at the television station for four hours — so the person who’d come into the store definitely wasn’t Lin Haichuan. Gu Qiao’s mind immediately jumped to that name, but her rational side helped her dismiss it: there were too many people who shared fifty percent of his features. Still, she couldn’t help asking Xiao Qin: “The person you just mentioned — he probably wasn’t Lin Haichuan. Do you remember how tall he was?” Gu Qiao held her hand above her own head. “About this tall?”

“Roughly, I think. Maybe even a bit taller.” Xiao Qin had only caught a vague impression and couldn’t be too precise. Watching the manager like this, she had the sense that this person who wasn’t Lin Haichuan seemed somehow more important to her than Lin Haichuan himself.

Could he really have come back? And come into her shop, no less? Gu Qiao stood in the doorway of the store. Her new shop had an excellent vantage point — people coming and going in a constant stream, a sea of figures in red, yellow, black, and white, tall and short, stout and lean. None of them was him.

The last time Gu Qiao had gone to the Luo family home was when the fourth Luo son invited her for his birthday. He had invited her again and again until she had no choice but to go. The Luo family — including her aunt who had once repeatedly cautioned her against getting together with Luo Peiyin — had, by some unspoken agreement, never mentioned his name in front of her. She had celebrated birthdays with many people, but had never spent his birthday with him. It was on the eve of his birthday that she had ended things with him.

All the people around her who had known Luo Peiyin kept those three syllables completely off their lips — as if he had never appeared in her life at all. The one and only time she had heard news of Luo Peiyin was when she had proactively called the fourth son. He, along with his name and everything connected to him, had simply vanished from her world. Were it not for the CD player and pager he had given her, the books he had given her, and that one photograph — taken so poorly it was barely worth keeping — the whole thing might have been a dream she’d had.

As Gu Qiao stood there, Luo Peiyin’s face drifted through her mind. She had never let herself think about what expression he’d worn when he listened to her call back then. Then a man’s voice reached her ears: “I seem to have misplaced my membership card somewhere — can you issue me a replacement?”

The cashier pulled out the membership registry: “Sir, could you please present your ID so I can verify your information?”

“I don’t have my ID on me. Can’t I just tell you the address and phone number I filled in, and you verify from that?”

“Mr. Qian, I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

“You people are so rigid. My home is in Miyun — you want me to go all the way back to Miyun just to get my ID so I can replace a membership card? That’s not worth the trip.”

Since opening the new shop, Gu Qiao had introduced a membership system: any customer who spent over five hundred yuan on software could receive a membership card, entitling them to an eighty-eight percent discount on all software, as well as occasional lucky draws; software catalogs would be mailed periodically to the address provided upon registration. For single purchases exceeding a thousand yuan, the discount would be even greater.

Yearning endlessly for a person was an expensive luxury. There was always something to pull her back to reality.

Within ten seconds, Gu Qiao had confirmed the facial features of this Mr. Qian. She walked over to the cashier and said: “Mr. Qian has been a member of our store since October — please issue him a replacement card right away.” Because the store’s membership base was still just barely over a hundred, Gu Qiao not only remembered every member’s face but also their place of work. His last visit had been to purchase CAD software; today he was here for accounting software. The quantities were small, but Gu Qiao suspected this was a procurement on behalf of his work unit rather than a personal purchase — an individual generally wouldn’t buy two such specialized, unrelated types of software. That said, it was probably a small work unit.

“Mr. Qian, are you satisfied with the software you purchased before?”

“It’s fine — just the price is… a bit on the steep side.” This Mr. Qian was the person in charge of computing affairs at a small state-owned enterprise. Most of this year’s budget had already been spent in the first half of the year. They would have to wait until next year before there would be a new plan for purchasing computers and software.

“We offer different levels of discounts depending on purchase volume — if you’re interested, we can discuss the details.” Gu Qiao focused on introducing Mr. Qian to her newly bundled office software package: “This bundle contains six software titles. Purchased individually, they would come to six hundred and sixty-eight yuan — but our package price is only three hundred and twenty-eight. As a member, you also get an additional twelve percent discount on top of that.”

The new membership card was issued promptly. Gu Qiao placed it in Mr. Qian’s hands, along with a freshly printed software catalog: “If you’re interested, feel free to call me at any time — we also offer mail-order service.” She handed Mr. Qian one of her business cards as well.

When the crowd thinned a little, the cashier Xiao Yang seized a quiet moment to ask: “Manager, you’re so clever — how do you remember so many people’s faces?”

Gu Qiao thought to herself: because the membership count was still low. The day she had so many she couldn’t remember them all — that would be when things were really working.

“Your job is to keep your head down and handle the accounts — you’re so focused on that, it’s natural you don’t pay attention to faces.” She lowered her voice. “Even if you can’t remember, as long as a customer gives their name and address, we should honor the member price anyway. Even if someone abuses a membership card, we don’t lose anything — we just earn a little less. But if we ever offend a genuine member, the future losses could far exceed a matter of ten or twenty yuan.”

Qiu Shuang had waited ten minutes outside the game company’s office without seeing the Yellow Dahua, so she hailed a Xiali sedan and headed straight to Gu Jia Software Specialty Store. Qiu Shuang suspected that Gu Qiao had specifically taken note of her habit of saving money on her own initiative, which was why she had promised to reimburse whatever taxi she took, fare-for-fare.

Gu Qiao herself always drove the Yellow Dahua, so Qiu Shuang didn’t feel right taking a nicer car than her manager.

Qiu Shuang was the deputy manager Gu Qiao had recruited at a generous salary. After graduating from Z University, Qiu Shuang had neither gone abroad, nor secured a state position, nor gone to work as a polished, glamorous professional at a foreign company. Instead, she had followed Gu Qiao — a woman who had only finished high school — to sell software in Zhongguancun, and had accordingly gone from being the pride of her family to its disgrace. Back when Gu Qiao had been making antivirus cards, she had taken on two student interns at the start — one male and one female. The female one was Qiu Shuang. Qiu Shuang had originally been introduced to Gu Qiao by Xiao Jia, but she had now grown closer to Gu Qiao than to him.

In Qiu Shuang’s parents’ words, her life had taken its wrong turn at precisely that moment. Qiu Shuang had stayed with Gu Qiao not only because of the salary Gu Qiao offered — competitive with that of a foreign company — but also because she understood that such a salary was no small burden for Gu Qiao to carry. In order to be worth those wages, she had become a mill-donkey, working around the clock, brainstorming promotions and market expansion strategies together with Gu Qiao. She sometimes wondered: this wasn’t even her own shop — why was she working so hard? But Gu Qiao had told her that very soon she would have a shop of her own — and eventually more than one. Together they would build Gu Jia into a nationwide chain.

The first time Qiu Shuang heard Gu Qiao say “nationwide chain,” she thought inwardly: has this woman lost her mind? But Gu Qiao had looked her in the eyes with complete seriousness and painted a picture of her imagined future — not just in Zhongguancun, but eventually in Guangzhou, Shanghai, Wuhan, Chengdu… everywhere. Because her goal wasn’t just one store, she had set things up right from the very beginning to find someone tech-savvy to partner with her. Qiu Shuang had found herself nodding along until she was fully won over. She hadn’t drunk a drop of alcohol that night — she couldn’t blame impulse on the liquor.

Qiu Shuang asked Gu Qiao who else she had fed such grand visions to before. And those bright, shining eyes of Gu Qiao’s had suddenly dimmed. Much later, Gu Qiao said: someday we will make it happen.

Gu Qiao had said “we” and not “I” — so Qiu Shuang felt that dream belonged to her too, in part. When relatives and classmates questioned why she had abandoned a clear, well-paved road to walk a narrow sheep’s trail instead, Qiu Shuang announced to them all that one day she would bring this specialty store to every corner of the country. Their expressions were uniformly those of people observing someone mentally unwell — or perhaps two people who were both deranged. Qiu Shuang felt she was still some distance from genuine lunacy, since Gu Qiao was considerably more unhinged than she was. Driven by her dream, Gu Qiao neither bought property nor changed her car, spending every day calculating how to increase profits and open the second store as soon as possible.

When she saw Gu Qiao, Qiu Shuang immediately went to the storage area at the back of the shop — which served as both a storeroom and the place where the two of them discussed work. As soon as she came in, she began updating Gu Qiao on her progress with the game company. This company had made a game called “Swordsman’s Strange Fate,” and just the previous week Gu Qiao had signed an exclusive distribution agreement with them. This was Gu Qiao’s first exclusive distribution deal — and, since the antivirus card and the opening of the software store, the biggest decision she had made. Gu Qiao was still driving around in the Yellow Dahua, yet she had paid a sum equivalent to the price of a Santana to secure the buyout fee for “Swordsman’s Strange Fate.” Not even when she had made the antivirus card had she invested this much upfront.

The game company’s most optimistic estimate was that they could sell ten thousand copies. On the first ten thousand copies, the split was seventy percent to Gu Qiao and thirty percent to the developer; once sales exceeded ten thousand copies, the developer’s share would decrease by five percentage points. A period martial arts drama had recently become a hit, and Lin Haichuan had gained fame as a result. Drawing on her past sales experience with game software, Gu Qiao was confident this domestic martial arts game would have a market. But just how large a market remained to be seen — that depended on how much she could dig out.

Qiu Shuang asked Gu Qiao: “Have you bought your return ticket yet?”

“I don’t know how long it’ll take to sort things out — no rush to book yet. I’ll just take the train back.” Gu Qiao was heading to Shanghai. Changfriend Software was holding a new product launch at the Hilton Hotel, and although she was just a small distributor under one of their major distributors, she had received an invitation after exceeding her sales targets last quarter — though for a sub-distributor like her, travel and accommodation were entirely her own expense. She had two reasons for going: first, to attend the launch and learn something; second — and more importantly — she needed to test the waters in Shanghai. Ten thousand copies of a game couldn’t possibly be absorbed by a single store. She needed distributors in other regions to help move the inventory. She had been in contact with vendors in Wuhan, Chengdu, and elsewhere, but she had virtually no understanding of the Shanghai market.

“When the game launches, will Lin Haichuan really be able to come to our release event?”

“He’ll definitely come.” He’d agree if only to ensure the pig-leather jacket photo never appeared again.

“Actually, Lin Haichuan looks a little bit like a senior from my year at Z University.” Qiu Shuang had only come to know Gu Qiao after Gu Qiao had already broken up with Luo Peiyin, and had no knowledge of their history whatsoever.

Qiu Shuang figured that, given Xiao Jia and Luo Peiyin’s connection, the odds were high that Gu Qiao — being close friends with Senior Xiao Jia — would know who Luo Peiyin was.

“Do you know Luo Peiyin?”

Qiu Shuang didn’t see the expression on Gu Qiao’s face when she heard the name — she was looking down at a freshly printed sales catalog. “Didn’t Senior Xiao Jia ever mention it to you?” she said, surprised.

“I don’t know if this is just selective memory, but I’ve always felt that Senior Luo in my memory was far more distinguished than this male actor — and much better looking. I always assumed Senior Luo would get his doctorate and continue pursuing his academic work — I had no idea he’d drop out of his doctoral program midway and convert to a master’s. Life really is unpredictable.” Qiu Shuang had heard from classmates that Senior Luo hadn’t even finished his degree before joining LC, and within just over two years had risen through the ranks of the Asia-Pacific headquarters in Singapore with remarkable speed. But she could see that Gu Qiao didn’t seem particularly interested in any of this — she hadn’t uttered so much as a single exclamation — so Qiu Shuang let it drop. Since Gu Qiao had already decided to work with Lin Haichuan, saying he wasn’t good enough right now would only dampen the mood.

Qiu Shuang looked up at Gu Qiao. “What’s the matter? Your complexion looks a bit off.”

“While I’m in Shanghai, you can drive the Yellow Dahua. Now that you’ve got your license, it’s time you practiced driving.”

Qiu Shuang began imagining the future: “Once this deal comes through, just upgrade the car — get a Santana, and then let me have your Yellow Dahua at a bargain price.”

“Can’t your imagination stretch a little further? Wouldn’t you like to picture yourself driving a Santana someday?”

Qiu Shuang laughed. “You must have poured plenty of sweet talk into people before meeting me. Tell me — who have you charmed before? Did things work out for them? Let me learn from their example.”

Gu Qiao’s lips parted and closed — and not a single word came out.

Qiu Shuang saw something strange in Gu Qiao’s expression. “I’m just joking! If I didn’t trust you, would I be here working with you?”

Gu Qiao walked toward the door. Before she stepped out, she turned back to smile at Qiu Shuang: “Wait for my good news!”

Lin Haichuan had not removed his sunglasses even inside the restaurant. Gu Qiao took off her coat and draped it over the back of her chair, revealing her ginger-yellow suit. She hadn’t become much more restrained in her use of color than before — but she had genuinely learned to exercise control. Besides a nondescript wristwatch on her hand, she wore no accessories at all.

“Why are you still wearing sunglasses indoors?”

“If we were in Hong Kong or Taiwan, the two of us sitting together would definitely make the papers tomorrow.”

“But we’re not in Hong Kong or Taiwan. You can eat in peace.”

If you ignored the eyes, from a certain sharp angle of his profile, you could almost mistake him for having a seventy-percent resemblance to that person. But with the sunglasses off, looking straight on, it was at most thirty percent. Even that, Gu Qiao felt was an overstatement — because she knew Luo Peiyin so well, she could see no resemblance at all.

“Gu Qiao, do you know how much I charge per advertisement these days? Asking me to appear at your game launch for free — isn’t that going a little far?” Gu Qiao hadn’t said “free” — she’d said “as a friend” — but wasn’t “as a friend” just a polite way of saying free?

After graduating, Lin Haichuan had signed with the Television Art Center, and his advertising contracts were managed through the Television Art Center as well.

Gu Qiao smiled. “I’ve already called the Television Art Center to ask — you charge thirty thousand yuan a year per advertisement. We still have half a year left on our pig-leather jacket contract, and I’m proposing to let it go. The money I’d be throwing away isn’t two or three hundred yuan — I’d be pouring fifteen thousand yuan down the drain. If you were in my position, would you do something this foolish unless it were for the sake of friendship?”

Lin Haichuan said nothing. Gu Qiao smiled again: “Actually, I’ve always thought the pig-leather jacket advertisement came out very well — I still have it and have been keeping it safe.”

Lin Haichuan gave a cold laugh. “What a con artist!” He had grasped the implication behind Gu Qiao’s words: if he couldn’t come to her game software launch as a gesture of friendship, she would continue using the old pig-leather jacket advertisement.

“That’s a bit harsh. If you want them, I can actually give you all the original advertising photos from your shoot back then.” As she said this, Gu Qiao produced a new contract from her handbag.

Then she pushed the menu toward Lin Haichuan: “I’m treating today — order whatever you like, don’t hold back.”

Lin Haichuan looked at Gu Qiao’s new contract and sighed — what a con artist he had run into.

This person had spent a total of thirteen hundred yuan in advertising fees, and had stretched his image rights all the way to 1995. The pig-leather jacket photos weren’t enough — now she wanted him to host the lucky draw ceremony at the game launch as well. That said, organizing a game lottery was at least somewhat better than daily promotions for pig-leather jackets.

When Lin Haichuan first met Gu Qiao, her mercenary streak hadn’t been quite so obvious as it was today — though the early signs had already been there.

If you didn’t analyze it too carefully, it wasn’t all that apparent.

When she smiled, her eyes smiled along with her. When those smiling eyes fixed on you with that kind of attentive gaze, if there hadn’t been a man standing next to her, Lin Haichuan might almost have suspected Gu Qiao was interested in him. She was indeed interested in him — she had invited him to model for her pig-leather jacket advertisement. Fee: three hundred yuan.

What Gu Qiao had been wearing that day, he had long since forgotten. He only remembered that her hair had been much shorter than it was now. But the man beside her — in a motorcycle jacket — he remembered with perfect clarity.

None of the leather jackets Gu Qiao had asked him to try on included anything like that jacket. For an entire six months, he had wanted to own one exactly like it. But Gu Qiao never noticed. She enthusiastically tried to sell him her pig-leather jackets instead, explaining that if he bought one himself or referred someone else, he would get a very substantial discount.

Lin Haichuan had always believed that the sole reason he had come off second-best that day was that the pig-leather jacket Gu Qiao had put him in was simply too crude and cumbersome — however warm and wind-resistant it may have been. He worked his hardest to project elegance and poise in Gu Qiao’s pig-leather jacket, but Gu Qiao was always dissatisfied. Even her dissatisfaction came with a smile — she smiled and asked him to relax a bit. The man standing next to her remained expressionless behind the camera, offering no opinions whatsoever. Being watched by a pair like that made it genuinely difficult to relax.

Gu Qiao paid without hesitation — far more readily than he had posed for photographs. When it was done, she smiled and said to him: “You’re this dedicated — you’re sure to become famous someday.” Shouldn’t she have said: you’re this handsome — you’re sure to become famous someday?

—